Teint de Neige Lorenzo Villoresi 2000 Eau de Toilette
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4 hours morning routine....
Yes, that's how I imagine Madame Pompadour's morning routine....
..... The sun's rays crawl into the bedchamber, a dance in the air with dust particles after the femme de chambre flings aside the heavy, dusty brocade curtains, shooting dust particles all over the room to greet the day....
She blinks, stretches and straightens, throws off the 20 kilo eiderdown, slips into the slippers she has put on, into the golden brocade robe that is held out to her, and strolls into the boudoir...... for 4 hours!
Her face and hands are carefully dabbed with a damp cloth, no more than that is allowed, because pathogens can enter the body through the moistened, dilated pores. There is not much talking, the mood is not as cheerful as the hazy spring day, because this daily routine must be accurate and wants to be enjoyed by Madame Pompadour.....One layer of clothing follows the next...the undershirt, and another shirt, the corset, the crinoline, and finally the dress, heavy, uncomfortable, in pastel colors that are currently in vogue, and have replaced the heavy bordeaux, sapphires, emeralds....
Over the almost-bald head, plagued by a few lice, sits the immense wig, the bigger the better, and finally, the face is covered with powder, white powder, heavy as a ton, no longer quite fresh, and far too much of it, it pastes the face and dances weightlessly through the room. The jewelry, finally, a hint of pink smeared on her lips, the big statement birthmark - and she's done. After 4 hours, she can be seen among the people. Pompadour stretches her fan and floats away...
The rooms are not aired. What remains is this fragrance....
It fits in well with this time, with this story. But not for me.
..... The sun's rays crawl into the bedchamber, a dance in the air with dust particles after the femme de chambre flings aside the heavy, dusty brocade curtains, shooting dust particles all over the room to greet the day....
She blinks, stretches and straightens, throws off the 20 kilo eiderdown, slips into the slippers she has put on, into the golden brocade robe that is held out to her, and strolls into the boudoir...... for 4 hours!
Her face and hands are carefully dabbed with a damp cloth, no more than that is allowed, because pathogens can enter the body through the moistened, dilated pores. There is not much talking, the mood is not as cheerful as the hazy spring day, because this daily routine must be accurate and wants to be enjoyed by Madame Pompadour.....One layer of clothing follows the next...the undershirt, and another shirt, the corset, the crinoline, and finally the dress, heavy, uncomfortable, in pastel colors that are currently in vogue, and have replaced the heavy bordeaux, sapphires, emeralds....
Over the almost-bald head, plagued by a few lice, sits the immense wig, the bigger the better, and finally, the face is covered with powder, white powder, heavy as a ton, no longer quite fresh, and far too much of it, it pastes the face and dances weightlessly through the room. The jewelry, finally, a hint of pink smeared on her lips, the big statement birthmark - and she's done. After 4 hours, she can be seen among the people. Pompadour stretches her fan and floats away...
The rooms are not aired. What remains is this fragrance....
It fits in well with this time, with this story. But not for me.
Uhle
